


Newton's Third Law

by apocellipses



Series: Snippets 2019 [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Science Fiction, they go on space ship and wheeee, um, ummm - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 14:06:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19442971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocellipses/pseuds/apocellipses
Summary: Dr. Elliot Chakarvarti is a theoretical anthropologist, philosopher, and sociologist who vanished from his home in late 3148. Since his sudden and unofficial leave of absence from the academic world eight years ago, Chakarvarti has found a higher-stakes, more lucrative career in crime. He specializes in the infiltration and ransacking of private collections, and uses a series of pseudonyms to sell stolen artifacts to museums and cultural preservation centers. Despite having committed over 500 acts of thievery, trespassing, looting, breaking and entering, trafficking, and identity fraud since his life on the run began, Chakarvarti has no arrest record and is presumed dead by the Intergalactic Bureau of Investigation. In Andromeda’s criminal underground, he is notorious, widely loathed, and known to be alive. There is a substantial reward on both sides for any information on his whereabouts.





	Newton's Third Law

**Author's Note:**

> hello silly people. this is the first thing i've written in a couple months. i read a lot of kurt vonnegut beforehand.

“You need to hurry,” the voice came down the hall.

“I’m hurrying. I’m hurrying.” Years of teaching had conditioned Dr. Elliot Chakarvarti, even when he was in a rush, to always repeat things at least once. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”

He was currently cramming a months’ worth of ties, scarves, and coats into a suitcase. Two more suitcases loitered against the wall, packed modestly with the bare necessities of clothing and personal items—the latter of which Chakarvarti had very few. 

The owner of the voice down the hall, Bertha Solaris, studied the apartment in which she was waiting. Books and trinkets everywhere, there were, on shelves and tables, even perched atop the chessboard in the center of the room, and each had their own careful place. She suspected from the pristinely kept house that Chakarvarti was neither accustomed to nor contented with disorganization. Her career, until just ten hours ago, had revolved around coaxing disorganized people onto a ship and launching them unceremoniously into space. It was nice to have a change of pace. 

“My apologies,” Chakarvarti puffed, hauling his overstuffed suitcase into the hallway. As he approached the front door, he craned his neck to peer through the window at the opposite end of the living room. There was no sign yet of the nighttime campus patrol, which was due to make rounds at the top of the hour and would surely notice a great stinking spaceship parked in the lot due east of his apartment complex. 

“One-forty-three,” Solaris said tidily.

“They’re early sometimes.” 

“All the more reason to hurry up.” She tapped her watch, more an idle habit than a call to haste.

Chakarvarti glanced about the house. The thought of leaving all these perfectly good, mostly unread books behind almost made him sick. But no, it was best to disappear with little trace… and keep the ship’s cargo bay as free as possible. 

“Well,” he said, satisfied with his assessment. “I believe it’s time to go.” 

Solaris had expected something more sentimental. Hardly one to complain about efficiency, however, she picked up the biggest of the suitcases and spun on her heel. Chakarvarti, forever a slave to chivalry, opened his mouth, but the door closed on his protests. Solaris was not wasting any time. 

His two smaller suitcases in each hand, he followed her out the door.

The ship was small, but powerful—the kind that you could kick into high gear out in unregulated quadranture and get close to tenth-lightspeed. Her paint was chipped, her chassis was dented, and her faded title was missing two letters. Now it read _P nd Skip er_. 

She was barely more impressive on the inside. The entrance opened into a semicircular recreational space, largely empty and equipped with two wide viewing windows. To their left, at the front—the bow?—of the ship, Chakarvarti could see the cockpit, and to the right, the hallway split into two. 

“I’ve got the far bed on this side.” Solaris plunked down the suitcase and gestured to the open room just inches down the portside hallway. “Rustov’s got the other. There’s eight other bunks. Take whichever you want.” 

They shared the silent gaze of two people about to part ways in the deepest part of an uncharted forest. Then, with a small but genuine smile, Solaris turned to the left. Chakarvarti, barely returning the expression, slowly headed to the right. 

Through the door Solaris had pointed to, Chakarvarti could see a modest bunk, unmade, beneath which sat a smattering of empty hydropacks and a lumpy burlap bag. It did not look like an engineer’s bed. But, then again, it didn’t look much like a pilot’s either. Which of his new shipmates did he know less about? Or were they tied at zero? 

The room just beyond them, then. It was empty, with a bunk on each side. There were two inset closets with standard-fare locking drawers and just enough room to hang a few suits, coats, and pairs of pants. To his surprise, each bed was equipped with a mattress and two pillows. He had not thought to bring sheets, blankets, or a comforter. 

Chakarvarti unpacked studiously. The room came with its own shirt hangers, which were welded into the closet for particularly rough flying. He had stayed in ships like this for conferences, usually twice yearly. Now one was his home. 

The ship rumbled as its engines turned over. Even Chakarvarti, the kind of person that could be politely referred to as a groundie, knew this was not a newer model of vessel. The metal was audibly straining under the heat and pressure of launch preparation. 

The PA system crackled into life from the ceiling, revealing just the circumstances under which Solaris’ chauffeur’s voice had been honed. 

“Ready for launch poll. Passengers, please secure loose cargo and be seated. Estimated liftoff in T-minus two-forty seconds.” 

All action and unruly limbs—he’d always been a little too upwardly disproportionate for grace—Chakarvarti scrambled to place his half-empty suitcases underneath the bedframe, where they wouldn’t slide into unsuspecting residents, and took a seat on the mattress. 

At this point she’d be doing the launch poll, muttering things about cabin pressure and oxidizer tanks and backup power. Keen curiosity propelled him back to his feet. 

“T-minus one-eighty seconds,” the PA said, just as he peered into the flight deck. Solaris’ eyes flicked towards him. She was bent over a sheet of paper, along whose side she had scrawled her initials several times. 

“Technically speaking, you should be seated for launch.” 

“Oh, please. Please. I’ve always wanted to see a master pilot at work.” 

“You sound like my wife.” She gestured to the chair next to her own, where a copilot might sit. Giddy, Chakarvarti took the seat. 

“Rustov is at his shop?” 

“He usually is.” Rustov was of a contractor than a resident, albeit a thoroughly invested one. “T-minus one-twenty seconds. With all due respect, Doctor, put on your seatbelt.” 

Ever the dutiful passenger, Chakarvarti pulled the heavy-duty LD harness across his chest. It had three buckles and was exhaustingly complicated, with straps that looped over the shoulders and under the thighs and around the chest to secure its victim snugly enough to restrain all movement, even that which might not disrupt the launch of a large space vessel. 

“T-minus thirty seconds,” Solaris said into the PA, opening a file cabinet and slipping in the initialed paper. 

Chakarvarti eyed the microphone. “Is there someone else on board?” 

“No. It’s standard procedure. T-minus twenty seconds.” 

Out the window, Chakarvarti could see patrol lights sweep the streetlit parking lot. 

“Damn,” he said, conversationally. 

“Don’t worry. She’s silent as a supernova.” Solaris gave the dash a fond pat, leaning into the PA one last time. Her hands were dancing across the controls. “T-minus ten seconds. Ignition sequence starts. Five… four… three… two… one… all engines running. We are clear for launch. Doctor, please lean back in your seat.” 

There was no need for her to tell him, because the sudden motion upwards jolted Chakarvarti backwards and stuck him there. The ship _was_ silent, if violent in its launch, and Chakarvarti’s eyebrows disappeared into his hair.

“We have liftoff. The clock has started. VLT is oh-one-five-seven.”

How was she so matter-of-fact about it? He watched the sky envelop them, no longer sleepy and aching for bed. Behind him languished an uncaring board of trustees and the droll day-to-day grind of academia. In front of him stretched the infinite expanse of outer space. In front of him, though not literally, spun the Andromeda Galaxy. Strapped into his chair in the cramped cockpit of a stolen junkyard ship, Chakarvarti gave his new partner-in-crime the broadest smile he’d managed in years.


End file.
